


Ordinary Time

by jamapanama



Category: Pundit RPF (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Catholicism, Community: lgbtfest, M/M, Queer Character, Queer Themes, The South
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-12
Updated: 2009-05-12
Packaged: 2017-10-06 08:52:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamapanama/pseuds/jamapanama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teenaged Stephen struggles with his sexuality. Jon either does or doesn't help.</p><p>TW: for Drug (weed) and alcohol use, as well as heavy religious overtones?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ordinary Time

**Author's Note:**

> Right around 8,000 words. Special thanks to the wonderful [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/queer_theory/profile)[](http://www.livejournal.com/users/queer_theory/)**queer_theory** for the beta.

"I got 'Stephen', but, then it's 'Coburg', right?" Jon asked. "Like the dairy with the statue of the cow?"

"No, Colbert, Col-BERT, 'COL-BERT.'" They had been in class together for how many years? Stephen rolled his eyes.

Jon just laughed. "Okay, man, calm down. Col-bert. See, I've got it forever now. Colbert." He smiled, then raised an eyebrow. "Or if you were French…"

Stephen found himself suddenly grinning. "But, I'm not, and I know your last name already."

They'd had nearly every class together since junior high, and in every single one, the teacher would go down the roll, asking for pronunciations and preferred names, and Jon was always after either Emily Legare or Timothy Lane.

"Oh, do you now?"

_"Jonathan Leibowitz?" the teacher would invariably intone. _

Jon would grin and duck his head, and then calmly declare, "Jon."

And that was that.

Stephen grinned. "I pay attention to things."

 

There'd been about ten people at Anderson's when the whole thing had started. They'd all been hanging around in the living room, drinking beers and laughing. Keith had gotten up to go into the kitchen and Jon had stolen his spot next to Stephen. Everything that had come out of Jon's mouth had cracked Stephen up, and that was before some overgrown sophomore had pulled the bong out of his book bag.

And then, not too much later, there were ten more people coming in the door. Anderson had looked vaguely worried, but then Keith was heading them off like he owned the place, and everything was fine again. Some of the kids had hard liquor. Two of them wanted to play DJ, but not jointly, and started bickering next to the stereo. Stephen and Jon had slipped away right as things were starting to get hectic. They'd ended up in Anderson's room, sitting together on his bed.

The change in dynamic had thrown them off just enough and they found themselves falling back on basic introductions when the silence had gotten too awkward.

"So, why don't we ever talk, anyway?" Stephen asked, trying to start a conversation that actually made sense. He looked down at his beer and then up at Jon. "I mean, we have friends in common, but I never actually see you around, except in class."

"I saw you in 'Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead' last spring," Jon answered.

A little less alcohol and it might have been a non sequitur. As things were, Stephen smirked. "What did you think of it? I mean, I thought my costars did an excellent job."

Jon shrugged and took a sip of his own beer. "I thought you did, as well. You were very funny, but real, too. You made a good Rosencrantz, and I mean that as a compliment."

Stephen grinned.

How exactly a comment like that could lead to kissing, Stephen couldn't say. One second and they were just smiling at each other and, the next, they were both leaning in and their lips were touching. Jon had his hands folded in his lap and Stephen let his rest on Jon's knees. The whole thing only lasted a few seconds, but that was enough.

When his head caught up with the rest of him, Stephen jerked back and almost fell off the edge of the bed. Luckily, he was on his feet before he could land on his ass, and then he was backing toward the door, not looking at Jon, trying not to look at anything. He swung the door open and lurched into the hallway, nearly crushing Anderson against the wall as he stumbled past. He didn't stop, even when his friend yelped after him.

In the living room, he narrowly avoided Keith, the dumbass who had convinced him to come to this "Anderson's Mom Is Out of Town" fiasco. Keith waved at him from his elbows, a beer in each fist, but Stephen ignored him. He kept moving. He saw, but did not process the New Girl making out with a redheaded girl on the couch, and then some other girl from his Calculus class reaching out toward him as he pushed through the crowd, but, by then he was already sliding through an entering crush of College of Charleston students and out of the door…

 

Air.

Stephen ran between the trees as skillfully as he had snaked around the clumps of teenagers on his way to the door. He was traveling faster now that his obstacles were no longer moving, and he felt like he was flying over the carpet of pine needles and cracked branches. It was cloudy, but the night was cool and not too humid. With the cold air rushing into his lungs, Stephen thought he might be able to keep running forever.

The light grew dimmer as he pushed deeper into the forest. He didn't really want to look back--he could breathe out here, finally, away from all those unexpected strangers--but he felt he had to. Looking over his shoulder, he could just make out the distant lights of Anderson's house.

That was when he tripped over the root. The toe of his sneaker got caught and he went down hard, his breath leaving his chest in one great burst. Inertia pulled him forward and he skidded a little on his stomach, pine needles poking through the fabric of his shirt.

"Shit."

Stephen lay still, slowly taking inventory of all of his possibly injured parts. His movement and the cool, outside air had sobered him up, but now that he was still again, a fog was beginning to creep back over him. He rolled onto his back and opened his eyes, hoping that getting off of his stomach would help cut down the sudden vertigo that was overtaking him.

"What an idiot." Stephen took a deep breath, sliding his glasses back up his nose. "Who even…"

First of all, who even smokes out of a bong?

And who does it after three beers? And on a Saturday night when he's supposed to be going to early Mass the next day?

And who the hell runs off into the woods like that? My God, Stephen. You're a mess.

The woods were nice, though, quiet and calm. Stephen looked up. The sky above him was black, but, somehow, the branches that cut across it were blacker, and he could make out the shapes of pine needles and branches and trunks, tall, dark, handsome trees. Stephen laughed at himself for thinking that way, that trees could be beautiful in such a human way. He was stoned. He frowned.

Jon wasn't tall and he wasn't particularly dark, with his blue eyes and purple-pink lips.

And that was why the answer to the question "Who?" should never be "Stephen T. Colbert". "Who smokes out of a bong?" Not Stephen T. Colbert, not on a Saturday night, and not ever. Stephen T. Colbert should be at home, sleeping, or, at the very least, studying math. He had to get that Calculus grade up so he could get into college and get out of this town and finally do something, save the world, save himself. And what would his father think if he could see Stephen T. Colbert now and what would Stephen T. Colbert say to him?

A sharp sting snapped Stephen out of his ramble. He realized that there was a stick poking into his back and that his shirt was getting wet from the ground.

"Well, fuck." Stephen stretched his limbs and began to try to convince his body that sitting up would be a good idea.

Unfortunately, it appeared that his brain was more interested in running over his many complexes than making the muscles of his back contract. He grunted and sunk deeper into the underbrush, trying to ignore the stick in his shoulder.

He knew better than all of this. He'd never get his brain to stop now. It already went on for hours and hours normally, and then he just had to go at this party and then he had to drink and he had to get stoned and now he was running away from kissing boys who were talking about statues of cows and here he was lying in the woods in the middle of the night.

Deep breath. Air.

Stephen could taste his own breath, and that was never a good sign. He needed some gum, or maybe some tortilla chips. Gum would probably be better, at least at first, even as hungry as he was beginning to feel, but, then, where was he going to get gum?

Jon had gum. Of course he did. It was the sugar-free kind, though, the kind that's really sweet, but kind of sour.

Jon had tasted like that, sour and sweet, and like the weed and beer Stephen was content to blame for everything that happened between them.

It had been strange, kissing him, tasting him. But, then, for one second, the bittersweet taste was everything, just like the press of Jon's lips, dry but soft, and the feeling in Stephen's stomach, all good butterflies battling bad. It had been such a weird combination of revulsion and lust, and this light fluttery feeling in Stephen's chest.

Why had they even been back there, alone in Andy's bedroom?

Stephen had let himself go off again. He shifted his weight and started to lift up his head.

 

The wind rushed out of his lungs--for a second time that evening.

"Oof. Keith. Get off of me."

Keith wiggled his ass, pushing it into Stephen's stomach.

"Nah, you're too good of a chair." Keith leaned back, stretching his arms over his head. "And who knew you were such a runner? You should go out for track."

Stephen grunted and pressed his shoulders into the ground. This wasn't the first time in the nine years they'd known each other that Keith had used him as furniture, and Stephen knew that struggling wouldn't work. He puffed out his stomach and steeled his nerves before coming up with a response.

"I've had a lot of practice running away from the bullies my best friend refuses to help defend me against…"

Keith snorted and rocked a little, pressing harder against Stephen's abdomen. "Well," he said, his voice suddenly very serious, "you should know by now that wearing a t-shirt featuring a comic book hero every single day of your life automatically disqualifies you from certain Guaranteed Friend Services, including our Platinum Bully Protection Service. Sorry, man."

Keith reached into his pocket and produced a lukewarm can of Coors Light. "Want a sip of goat piss?"

Before Stephen could answer, Keith was cracking open the can and foam was spraying everywhere. Keith jumped to his feet.

"No! My pants!"

Stephen laughed and sat up, relishing in his newfound ability to breathe, and enjoying Keith's impromptu beerpants dance.

Keith was the only boy Stephen knew who could consistently pull off corduroy. Keith knew it, of course, and so he wore those rough brown pants every chance he could. He called them his "Magnet Pants" and the connotations were obvious, if unendingly unnerving to Stephen. Luckily for Keith, the beer stain quickly soaked in to the fabric and started to disappear. Once he finished his freak out, Keith reached down, offering Stephen a beer-slicked hand.

"So, what were you running away from, anyway?" Keith asked as he pulled Stephen up off of the ground.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Oh, okay." Keith shrugged to himself and sipped what was left of his beer. They started to make their way back toward the house.

"Oh man, did you see?" Keith suddenly exclaimed. "That new girl from our History class, Rachel? Queer as Christmas. I guess I'll be scratching her off The List." Keith pounded Stephen's shoulder with his free palm.

Stephen winced under the weight of Keith's hand. "So, how many does that make, like, one person in the whole school?"

"Gotta play the field." Keith finished his beer and crushed the can in his fist. "I may switch to men for the rest of the evening, though, because, no offense, but, this party is turning out really literally gay."

"'No offense'? What does that even mean?" Stephen shook his head, but Keith merely grinned, squeezing Stephen's shoulder even harder.

"I just love how easy it is to make you uncomfortable," Keith said as they reached the door.

Stephen shrugged him off with a scowl. "One day you're going to get your ass handed to you, Keith. Not by me, I know, but just remember, there's a whole world of uncomfortable people out there."

Keith rolled his eyes and reached for the doorknob. "Get the bug out of your ass, Colbert."

 

Back inside, things had gone from bad to worse.

A gust of heat washed over them immediately upon their entrance. There were twice as many people in the house as there had been when Stephen had left, and he didn't recognize even a third of them.

Anderson was sprawled out on the floor right in front of the entryway, rolling on his back with laughter, and, of course, Jon was sitting right next to him, in the middle of saying whatever it was that was making Andy convulse. They both waved at Stephen and Keith. Stephen nodded back, but kept walking, nearly grabbing Keith's arm to drag him away toward the kitchen.

"Who invited all these people, anyway?" Stephen huffed.

Keith grinned. "Um, maybe me… Andy said he didn't mind."

"Keith!" Stephen would have punched his arm but he was suddenly distracted by what was going on in the kitchen. He got out a "What, why?" before he lost himself to gaping.

"Because, well, I wanted to impress the new girl with how many…" Keith followed Stephen's gaze. "Woah, we should probably do something about that."

"Yeah."

Three of the coeds, that special brand of redneck frat boy who liked to crash high school parties, had stationed themselves between the fridge and the partygoers, and had taken up the ever-important task of making girls flash them their bras in order to get to the beer. The Rachel girl was giving one of them an earful, but the other two were still at it, jeering all the while.

Keith considered the situation. "Hey, I kind of know them, so I'll go talk to them while you go get Andy, since this is his house and all…"

Stephen started to nod, but then looked over and saw that Anderson and Jon were still talking. "Wait. Why don't you go get Anderson and I'll talk to them?"

"You really want to do that?" Keith looked skeptically at his friend's skinny frame. Stephen nodded, then shook his head.

"How much pot did you smoke?" Keith grinned.

"Too much. But I--"

"Stephen, you don't have to play macho. Trust me, I know these guys. But you go get Andy, just in case…"

"Fine." Stephen smiled miserably as Keith planted another hard slap on his back and then turned away.

"Gentlemen!" he could hear Keith call out behind him.

Stephen hung his head and slowly began his trek across the living room. He stopped suddenly when he felt eyes on his back, and turned around just as Rachel put a hand on his shoulder.

Rachel smiled. She was about to say something when Keith's voice overtook hers. "Sorry, but house rules say no making the women flash you for beer. Follow the rules or you're going to have to leave. Making men flash you on the other hand…"

She and Stephen both laughed, though possibly for different reasons. Rachel tilted her head and made a motion for Stephen to follow her. They headed out of the kitchen and through the back door, back outside again.

 

"I see you're avoiding Jon."

They were sitting on the steps off of Anderson's back porch, looking out over the dark, quiet back yard. The only light came from inside of the house, but Stephen could still make out basic contrasts and shapes. The swimming pool was as black and calm as asphalt, and it was still just warm enough outside for Stephen to wonder how none of the drunken teenagers had discovered it yet. He looked over at Rachel and was fairly convinced that she was rolling a joint, but, in the night, he couldn't be sure.

"You know him?" Stephen asked, not at all worried about how obvious it was that he was avoiding the question.

Rachel smiled. "Yeah. Well, sort of. He showed me around on my first day of school and we kind of got stuck together. I think he likes that I'm younger than he is. It makes him feel like he can teach me something."

"You're 16?" Stephen frowned. Rachel nodded.

"Should you be here?" he asked.

"Should _you?_ God, if one more person…" Rachel shook her head, grimacing slightly, then lifted up the finished joint, her eyebrows rising.

Stephen looked at Rachel's eyebrows and felt his own rise to mimic them. "I really shouldn't. I have Mass tomorrow, early, and…"

"So do I, " Rachel answered. She lit the end of the joint with a sudden spark from a lighter that seemed to come out of nowhere. After a long inhale, she waved the little tube of pot in front of him. Exhaling, she finished with, "But that's tomorrow."

Stephen took the joint from her, just to make it stop moving. "You're Catholic?"

She nodded.

"Where do you go to church?" he asked. He found himself bringing the joint to his lips, like his hand wasn't his, just some robotic thing making him get higher. As he inhaled, he thought of the way Jon had tasted, and the way his breath would start to smell. He felt prematurely busted by someone who didn't even exist. It was weird, but he breathed in harder, taking the smoke into his lungs.

"Well, nowhere yet, but we've been trying out different places around town. There are a lot of them, actually. Where do you go?"

"Stella Maris over on Sullivan's Island," Stephen answered. He let his breath out all at once. "It's a nice little church, historical in its own way. Um, I usually go to the early service, if you want to get up for it."

"I always love making my parents get up early. Consider it a date. A holy date."

Stephen found himself without a word to say. He tried to take another drag, but no smoke came out. He looked at Rachel, and then at the dead joint in his hand.

Rachel grinned, fishing the lighter back out of her pocket, and Stephen put the joint to his lips, mostly out of reflex. She lit the end, laughing when in flared up at first.

"I'll wave to you if I see you," she said as he inhaled.

Stephen laughed, which made him cough. Rachel simply watched him, accepting the joint when he passed it back to her.

"Sorry," he grunted. "It's just that I'm an altar boy, so you'll definitely see me."

"I'll definitely wave, then."

Rachel held the smoke in her lungs until she started smiling. It was a sly little grin that made Stephen feel like she had figured something out.

"What?" Stephen asked. He fiddled with a tear in the knee of his jeans.

Rachel breathed out a line of smoke. "Just thinking."

"What?" he asked again.

"Not quite sure yet, but I'll let you know."

Neither said another word until they had finished smoking. Then, Rachel stretched out on the wooden stairs, her limbs going everywhere as she looked up at the sky.

Stephen bundled himself up in response, pulling his knees to his chest.

"Cloudy," she said.

"Yeah," Stephen answered.

He was looking down at Rachel's feet. Her shoes looked black in the dark, but he knew they were blue, because he had seen them in the light. He could just barely make out the little white stripes running up the sides. Then, one shoe jumped the other as Rachel leaned further down, crossing her thighs.

"So, how long have you been having issues with your sexuality?" she asked, as casually as she had spoken about the weather.

Stephen flinched. "I'm sorry, what?" He'd heard what she said, but his brain was rejecting it.

"Maybe I should unpack this a little?" Rachel looked up at him over her glasses. Her brown eyes were as black as her blue shoes.

"I think you probably should," Stephen mumbled at his knee. He was momentarily lost now that he didn't have anything to do with his hands. His head felt like it was folding in on itself. His fingers returned to the hole in his jeans.

Rachel shrugged, her eyes stuck on Stephen as he began to tug at a thread. He could feel them boring into him as she said, "I'm just saying, well, I saw you run off earlier, and then I saw Jon following you out into the hallway."

"He followed me?" Stephen asked, refusing to look up. He separated a loop of string from the rest of the weave, carefully pulling it away so it wouldn't break.

Rachel nodded. "He was pretty, hmm… awkward. He kind of half followed you a few feet and then just stopped and stared. Luckily chatty little--I believe his name is Anderson, the host guy--whom you almost crushed to death, by the way--was there to distract him. I swear to you, if he hadn't been there, Jon seriously looked like he might have stood there all night."

Stephen gritted his teeth. "That's an overstatement, I'm sure." 

He had gotten a few more loops separated out now. He dug his nail into the gap between the threads and the solid block of denim, hunting for another string. Rachel didn't say anything else. 

It felt serious. Everything felt serious.

Stephen took a breath. "But what does that have to do with my sexuality?"

"Well, beyond the fact that you're an apparently fairly devout Catholic, and, therefore, automatically repressed in some way or another… Dude, it's a party and you were off in a room with another guy. It's kind of common sense."

Stephen hooked his finger around the loose loops and tore them open in one violent tug.

He stood up and started his way up the porch steps, grabbing for the rail when the high overtook him.

"Come on..." Rachel reached up toward him, grappling with one of his hands like she might pull him back down toward her. "Sometimes it's true."

He turned back toward her, nearly growling. "That's exactly the kind of crap everyone says, but it isn't true. It's never actually true."

"Stephen, look. It's--"

Stephen shook his head, the world shaking around him. "I don't even know why I'm talking to you."

Rachel's grip slackened, but she didn't let go.

Her voice was so soft it was almost a whisper, but somehow kinder. "Hey, look, really, Stephen, I know this isn't California, but, it's okay if it is true." Her fingers curled tightly around Stephen's wrist, then relaxed. "It's okay with me, anyway."

She let go of him, and leaned back. Stephen's eyes met hers. He glared down at her. She smiled, and he felt flustered.

"I don't know about all that. But, I've got to go anyway. It's late. I'll see you at Mass tomorrow, which is at eight, by the way, so you should go home." He turned away from her, stomping across the porch to the door.

Rachel sighed. He left her with that.

 

Stephen couldn't run off into the woods again, partially because he had already tried it once that night, but mostly because he was nearly too fucked up to stand, and running was out of the question. He made it into the living room and then collapsed onto the couch.

He took a cursory look around, but that was all he could manage. He was hot and dizzy. He saw the frat boys, lounging on the floor with a deck of cards and what was either a bottle of whiskey or a bottle of rum. He saw Rachel, already back with the redhead, whispering something, not looking at him. He saw Anderson over in the corner talking to a small brown-haired girl. He didn't see Keith and he didn't keep looking.

He saw his feet on the floor below him. His stomach churned, so he focused his eyes on the swirl-pattered rug below his sneakers. He thought long and hard about rugs and floors and houses. He didn't want to puke. He thought about rugs.

The floors in Anderson's house were covered by all these weird rugs. Rugs upon rugs--all swirling and blocky and odd. The house was all hardwood at Anderson's, of course, good for sliding around in your socks and for occasionally nearly bashing your head in on, which was the reason for the rugs. Hardwood and rugs, and rugs and rugs. Stephen supposed he could have really hurt Anderson, running around like that...

And then, there was that image of Jon, standing stupidly in the doorway, the one Rachel had somehow exported directly to Stephen's brain. He could picture Jon perfectly, his mouth hanging open, his eyes slightly glazed. The whole thing was almost kind of sweet, but also kind of pathetic. Stephen laughed and then grunted as a wave of nausea hit him.

His brain twitched and churned. _Hey, Stephen, have I mentioned to you lately why you shouldn't be doing this?_

"Shit, I know," Stephen moaned, apparently out loud. His words were like a flashing beacon and suddenly, wherever Keith had been, he was now careening into the spot next to him. Stephen kept his head down and tried to slide away from him, but then, there was Anderson on the other side, sandwiching him in.

"How's it hanging?" Keith bellowed.

"Yeah, did you and Rachel make out, or what?" Anderson asked, immediately breaking into giggles.

Stephen kept his head down. He noticed that Anderson's shoelace was untied. He was wearing white Nikes with… "Wait, what?"

"We decided she had to be playing both sides," Keith answered, "because I don't want to take her off my List yet."

Stephen tried to look up, but immediately ducked down, groaning. His head was spinning and his stomach was still not entirely balanced. "Could you guys just shut up about the gay shit for one second?"

"Woah now." This time it was Anderson. It was like they were ping ponging around Stephen's head. Stephen covered his face with his hands.

"What's wrong?" That was still Anderson, at least.

"This is just the worst fucking party ever," Stephen groaned into his hands.

"Worse than New Year's?" Keith asked. Stephen could tell he was grinning, but it just wasn't funny. He shook his head.

"Come on," Anderson added, jabbing Stephen lightly in the side. "It couldn't possibly be that bad… I see no makeup whatsoever."

New Year's Eve was why Stephen felt he was entirely hypocritical in his questioning the age appropriateness of Rachel's party going. Sixteen himself back then, he'd had the boys over to do the countdown and Anderson had bought vodka with him and, then, within ten minutes of the new year's dawning, Keith had Stephen braced across the bed while Andy used one of Stephen's sisters' makeup kits to give him the makeover from hell.

"You were so pretty," Keith crooned, following Stephen's thoughts to a fine point. Stephen would have hit him, but that would have required uncovering his face.

Keith never got his, Stephen thought. Oh, but Anderson had. He had foolishly refilled his mother's vodka with water and the whole bottle had cracked in the freezer. Oh, how mad Mother had been… But, if Anderson even thought of that now, it didn't stop him from giggling wildly, or from poking Stephen in the ribs half a dozen times.

Stephen felt he was in a play, with no control over the script.

Anderson: "I think you have the prettiest eyes, Stephen. Don't you agree, Keith?"

Stephen: "Just stop it."

Keith: "Oh, definitely. If only we had some mascara right here…"

Stephen: "I'm serious, just--"

Anderson: "He's a gorgeous boy."

Keith: "He'll figure that out eventually."

A different voice: "Hey, what are you guys doing?" The voice was firm, but had a smile in it. Stephen actually looked up.

"Can I have a piece of gum?" Stephen asked.

It wasn't what he had planned to say to Jon if he ever even spoke to him again. He hadn't really planned anything at all, but if he had…

"Sure." Jon dug into his pocket. The foil-wrapped morsel was warm with his body heat. Stephen's hands shook a little as he tried to unwrap it.

"Hey, are you okay?" Jon asked. "You want me to get you some water or something?"

Stephen shook his head. He was a different kind of dizzy now, not sick, but flushed. "I'll go with you."

Jon slowly reached out his hands--they seemed to stall out suddenly, giving Stephen time to shakily unwrap the gum and put it in his mouth--before finally making contact with Stephen's and braiding their fingers together.

Stephen must have been heavier than Jon expected, because they almost fell back down onto the couch. Luckily, Keith and Anderson were there to help, pushing against Stephen's shoulders and back, and soon the pair were standing stably on their feet.

Stephen looked back as he and Jon made their way to the kitchen, and he saw Anderson wave before sliding into the middle of the couch and sprawling out across Keith's stomach. Stephen's eyebrow twitched, but he quickly returned his attention to Jon, and then down to their hands. Their fingers looked like Anderson and Keith getting comfortable on the couch. Stephen let go.

 

The kitchen was surprisingly empty. Stephen had been too busy feeling nauseated to pay attention to how many people had been heading out the door. He looked at the clock on the stove and saw that it was one a.m., not as late as he had expected, but later than it should have been, just the same. He looked over at Jon, who already had a glass in his hand and was holding it under the built-in filter on the fridge. As if he realized that Stephen was watching him, Jon looked up and smiled.

Jon handed Stephen the glass.

"I'm sorry about earlier." Jon dove in immediately, the words slipping out from his lips the second the glass was out of his hands. "I mean, I know we've been in school together for years, but I didn't even know your last name for certain and that was probably not the best way to start out getting to know someone."

Stephen took a long drink of water, somehow remembering to hold his gum under his tongue. A choking fit was not what he needed right then. When he was done, he took a deep breath and said absolutely nothing.

Stephen stared at Jon and Jon stared and Stephen. Luckily, no one else in the house wanted water or beer, or they'd have stumbled upon the stare down of the ages. Jon stared at Stephen and Stephen stared at Jon. Finally, Jon started to smile, very, very slowly. The edges of his mouth twitched first, then the center of his lips. His lips twitched again, like they were trying to make a frown, but the smile broke out anyway, and then Stephen was laughing, and of course, Jon was laughing too.

"You want to take a walk?" Stephen asked. Jon nodded.

The house was strangely quiet. It was a disaster, of course, but only because of the deserted remnants of a party now past. It seemed as if everyone had cleared out at once. Stephen spotted Anderson and Keith, now passed out on the couch in the strangest, most uncomfortable-looking configuration, arms and legs everywhere. He pointed them out to Jon, who giggled softly and then placed a hand lightly on Stephen's shoulder, leading him through the mess of beer cans and booze bottles and out the front door.

It was wonderfully cool outside. The boys stepped off of the landing and onto the sidewalk. The clouds had cleared a little, but there was still a dark patch over the half-lit moon. Jon stared up. Stephen's eyes followed his.

Stephen felt like he was working on a five-minute delay.

"I'm sorry I ran away," he said. "That was pretty stupid of me."

Jon cocked his head. "Well, at least you were quiet. You could have run away screaming... Not that that's ever happened to me, of course."

"Of course."

Quiet. Stephen could hear the wind creaking in the pines. It was the type of sound he didn't like very much, too bare and real, like someone not so great at music practicing the violin. Shivering a little, he hunched his shoulders and kept his eyes on the ground in front of him. He knew he should say something else, but he couldn't figure out what. Finally, his words chose themselves for him.

"So, you're Jewish, right?"

Jon smiled. "Who snitched?"

Stephen felt himself catching the smile. "Your parents when they named you Jonathan Leibowitz."

Jon chuckled. Stephen leaned into the sound.

There was a little playground a few blocks away from Anderson's house, the typical green and brown plastic monstrosity set upon a mat of deadly woodchips. It was hideous, but it offered a pair of swings, which Stephen and Jon graciously accepted.

"So, yeah, I'm Jewish," Jon said, pawing at the ground with his sneakers, "But you know, not really, _really_ Jewish. I'm maybe more ish than Jew." He looked up at Stephen like he was hoping he might smile, but all Stephen did was hum thoughtfully.

Jon grunted. "I've been working on that joke for months."

"Sorry," Stephen answered. He kicked off and started to swing. "I'm not much for jokes tonight." 

"Well, to follow it through, then," Jon kicked off after him, "What about you? Not Jewish?"

"Not Jewish, but close. Catholic. I guess the biggest difference is your matzo is unleavened bread, while ours is the body and blood of Christ."

They both smiled at that.

"I'd had that line in my head for awhile." Stephen dug his feet into the ground, pulling himself to a halt.. "Thanks for letting me finally use it."

Jon stopped next to him.

"Yeah, no problem... same with me and the 'Jew' and the 'ish' and all that... but, yeah, we already wen through that. Shit." 

Jon appeared to suddenly realize that they were sitting still on a swing set again, and started to swing. Stephen followed after him and soon they were both rising higher and higher into the air.

"So..." Stephen ventured. They were swinging out of sync and he waited until they were about to pass one another again before he continued. "Are your parents religious?"

There was another beat as they pulled away from one another.

"More than I am, I guess," Jon finally answered.

They swung back and forth, passing each other twice.

On the third swoop, Stephen spoke again. "Do they know you kiss guys at parties?"

Jon didn't wait to answer. He called out from the apex of his swing, "Do yours?"

The question made Stephen want to jump right out of his swing. Instead, he dug his heels into the ground, jerking to a stop. Jon did the same on his next trip down.

"Mine don't," Jon said. "I wouldn't even begin to know how to tell them."

"I shouldn't have brought it up," Stephen mumbled. He was looking at his feet again. They hadn't changed. "I should go, anyway. I still have Mass tomorrow at eight."

"You should have told me," Jon answered. "I wouldn't have kept you up."

Stephen looked at the ruts his shoes had made in the chips. He had nothing to say.

"How are you getting home, anyway?" Jon asked.

"I'm staying at Andy's," Stephen answered, his eyes fixing on Jon's knees and then his face. "What about you?"

"I live in the neighborhood, three streets up, two blocks down." Stephen wasn't sure why Jon was telling him this, but Jon seemed to be running with it. "Hey, you didn't see Rachel leave, did you, because she was supposed to stay over at my place."

"I didn't, but if you want to walk back with me, we can check."

Jon stood up brusquely. "Yeah, let's go."

 

Stephen kept his eyes on the ground. "My mom would probably kill me. I might even kill me."

It took Jon a second to respond. He stopped walking, making Stephen stop, too. He stared at Stephen until he looked up. "That's not really funny."

"I didn't mean it to be. I just… I just don't kiss guys at parties. It's not something I do." Stephen kicked at a clump of weeds that had sprung up in a sidewalk crack.

"It's not like it's one of my great hobbies or something, either." Jon looked up the street, and Stephen's eyes followed his. They were only a block away from Anderson's house. "I just like you, is all. I liked you in that play and I like when you talk in class and I want to be your friend. I don't know why I never tried to be your friend before and I don't know why I thought kissing you would be a good way to start up a friendship."

"I'll be your friend," Stephen answered. "I'd really like to be your friend, actually, but, well, there's a line, a Friend Line, that, when crossed, makes things very awkward. And, besides…" Stephen swore he was once much more articulate, but he continued, "Even if you are only a little Jewish, don't you worry that maybe you just shouldn't be kissing men at all? I mean, it's in your book."

Jon took a deep breath. "Well, what about your book?"

"I--I don't know," Stephen stuttered, "but that's kinda the point, and you're deflecting."

Jon looked away. "Then what about your other friends? They seem pretty gay."

"They don't try to kiss me, and it's not my business to get in their business when it doesn't involve me. We just don't talk about it and I don't think about it." He tried to look at Jon, but Jon was looking up at the sky.

"I guess that's fair," Jon answered, though the way his voice shook made Stephen guess that he wasn't sure how fair it really was. "So, you want to do the let's just not talk about this any more thing? Pretend it never happened?"

Stephen let out a long sigh. "Sure."

They walked the last block in silence.

 

The front door swung open to more silence. Anderson was sleeping under a blanket on the couch and Keith was nowhere to be seen. Jon and Stephen were both amazed at how clean the place had suddenly become. Checking the kitchen, they found Keith and Rachel with trash bags. The twin looks of relief that flashed across both of their faces let the boys know they had returned just in time. Rachel swept an armful of bottles into her bag and then turned toward Keith.

"Hate to abandon you, but…"

"No, I understand. It's late. Tomorrow's Sunday. Some people apparently sleep." Keith reached forward, taking the bag from her hands.

Rachel ducked her head. "I'm just going to figure out where I left my jacket, then, you ready, Jon?"

"Of course, " Jon answered, his eyes following her as she sped out of the kitchen.

Keith's eyes followed the same trajectory. When Rachel was gone, he raised an eyebrow, looking between the two boys. "Uh, she doesn't play for both teams, by the way, just, you know, as a warning."

He lifted up his trash bags. "Now, I'm going to dispose of the evidence." He scurried off.

Alone again. Stephen scuffed the floor with his shoe. Jon rocked from foot to foot.

"Okay," Jon finally said, "am I paranoid or…"

"They may or may not have done that on purpose, but I'm really not sure," Stephen answered. "Alone again."

"I thought maybe." Jon scanned the kitchen, looking impressed with the work Keith and Rachel had done.

Stephen sniffed. "So, uh, yeah, see you at school?"

"Yeah, definitely. I mean, it's kind of unavoidable, isn't it?"

"I guess it is." Stephen smiled. Jon started to offer his hand, but, for reasons not entirely clear to even Stephen himself, Stephen shook his head and opened his arms.

It was a good hug, but maybe a little too short, and a little awkward, but blessedly lacking in the usual macho hand slaps. As they pulled away from each other, Jon tilted his head up, letting his lips quickly brush across the underside of Stephen's chin. He looked away too quickly for Stephen to see his expression.

"I'll see you around." Jon turned on his heels, already heading for the door.

"Yeah, see you."

Stephen stood alone until Keith returned, loud as ever.

"Man, I have so much random shit to tell you!" Keith shouted, wrapping a hand around the back of Stephen's neck. "But first, how about you?"

"You go first." Stephen's eyes were going glassy. He let out an exaggerated yawn.

Keith looked him over, frowning a little. "Maybe tomorrow, then. You've got church anyway, right?"

"Right."

 

In his dream, the moon was full and the sky was clear. Stephen took a running leap off the back of Anderson's porch and into the deep, black swimming pool. The pressure of water surrounded him, but he felt no need to try and breathe.

He woke up to the insistent scream of the alarm clock on the nightstand next to him. Once he shook himself through the haze of hangover and finally realized where he was, he silenced the clock with a swift smack and rolled over. It was six a.m., which gave him plenty of time to shower and then get on the road.

His mind was strangely quiet as he headed down the hall from the guest room to Anderson's hall bathroom, hungover meditation. He bathed and dressed silently, enjoying the feeling of relative peace that had fallen over him as he toweled his hair and put on the Sunday clothes he had brought along with him. He hadn't had so much to drink that it hurt him now--thanks, he guessed, to Rachel. He sneaked into the kitchen to get a soda from the refrigerator and then doubled back to let Anderson know he was leaving.

Stephen knocked on the door and got the expected lack of an answer. He tried the knob and discovered that the door was locked.

Anderson didn't lock his bedroom door.

But Keith had stayed the night, and the implications of the locked door made Stephen's heart pound. He shook his head, but it was too late. The entirety of the previous night rushed back into him and his headachy calm was gone.

Shaking slightly, he checked his pocket for his keys and turned quickly back down the hall. He was almost to the door when he heard Keith call after him.

"Hey, Colbert! Come back and say goodbye to me!"

Stephen kept walking. "Bye, Keith."

"Stephen…"

"Look." He turned around then, quickly eying Keith's t-shirt and boxers. "I don't want to know about you and Andy's little thing, okay? I just want to go to Mass and be left alone."

"Woah, okay, uh," Keith leaned against the wall. "I wasn't going to say anything about it, anyway. I just wanted to make sure you were all right. I mean, did something happen last night?"

"Nothing I ever want to talk to you about," Stephen answered. He turned back around, taking the remaining steps toward the door. "I'll see you later."

 

Stephen mumbled to himself as he drove. His mom had let him borrow the old truck, and it practically guided itself down the road, it had traveled the area so many times. Things seemed much more clear-cut now that he was no longer intoxicated and starting to develop a tell-tale headache. He didn't know what to do with his friends--that was still their business--but he knew he wouldn't be sharing his own business with them. He would work through it on his own. At the very least, he could keep a handle on his own behavior, cut that shit out, grow up a little. He could start going to youth group on Saturday nights again, maybe spend more time with his family, get away from his stupid queerass friends sometimes, listen to some different perspectives.

Stephen tried to affirm his resolve by thinking of Bible verses, the one about cutting off the hand that causes you to sin, or even the Lord's Prayer, but all he could think of were Captain America quotes and jokes Jon had made in the living room. He turned on the radio, fumbling over the country and pop stations, finally landing on classical.

He watched the scenery for a little while, still keeping half an eye on the road. It wasn't even really fall yet, but some of the trees were already starting to brown. Maybe it was the drought. The whole world was a drought.

And, then, suddenly, the church was rising up on the road in front of him. The trip felt like it took less time than Stephen could comprehend, but the clock said he was only about five minutes earlier than usual, so he pulled the trusty old Ford into the parking lot, gathered his thoughts, and then made his way into the church.

He had made up his mind to confess as soon as he had a chance, but then, when Fr. Mark asked him if he wanted to have his "usual pre-Mass talk", Stephen found himself shaking his head.

"I have some things I need to work out inside first."

The priest seemed to understand. He put a hand on Stephen's shoulder and then sent him off to get dressed. Once he had struggled into his cassock and made sure everything was where it should be, he headed out into the sanctuary.

It was still too early for any parishioners to have arrived, so Stephen wandered over to the little stand that held the Lectionary, just to double-check that the book was set to the right day's readings. He stared out into the room as he walked, awed as always by the shine of the wooden pews and the light through the stained glass windows.

He reached the podium. That's what it was really, not a pulpit, just a small wooden pedestal with a big book on top. The Father liked to talk free form to the congregation, pacing the front, sometimes even creeping out into the aisle. 

Stephen stooped over the book, his eyes running over the page.

_Liturgical Year A, Cycle I  
Twenty-fourth Sunday in Ordinary Time_

Stephen thought for a second. He had the calendar pretty well memorized, but it always took a moment for him to remember. Yes, that was right.

He glanced down again, his eyes straying over the readings.

_Sirach 27:30--28:7_

Wrath and anger are hateful things, yet the sinner hugs them tight.  
The vengeful will suffer the LORD'S vengeance, for he remembers their sins in detail.  
Forgive your neighbor's injustice; then when you pray, your own sins will be forgiven…  
…

 

Psalms 103:1-2, 3-4, 9-10, 11-12

Of David. Bless the LORD, my soul; all my being, bless his holy name!  
Bless the LORD, my soul; do not forget all the gifts of God,  
Who pardons all your sins, heals all your ills…  
…

 

Fr. Mark's hand dropped gently onto Stephen's shoulder again. "You okay, son?"

Stephen nodded.

"There's a lot of good information in the readings today, good things to think about." The priest squeezed Stephen's shoulder and smiled. "Come on, it's almost time."

 

Rachel waved like she said she would. Stephen was a little surprised to see her there, sitting in the middle of a pew, a little more than halfway back from the altar, but she was easy to pick out among the generally grey-haired early Mass goers. There was a middle aged man next to her, and a middle aged woman next to him, her parents, Stephen assumed. He could see a boy, too, standing, but hunched over a little, at the far end of the row. Stephen couldn't make out anything about him, except that he was about the same height as the mom and wearing a dark blue suit. Stephen didn't stare too long. He guessed that Rachel had a brother, and then followed the priest to the front.

He almost forgot all about them for the rest of the service, only remembering when he saw Rachel approach the front for Communion. He noticed she didn't take the wafer into her hands. He didn't take it at all.

Stephen stuck around after Mass to make sure everything was ready for the nine a.m. service. The further the day progressed, the more young parishioners there were who could be coaxed into helping the priest. While Stephen was the lone server in the eight o'clock Mass, by the time it was over, there were two teenagers already waiting in the wings to steal his cassock and get on with the next event. Stephen's family usually hit the early afternoon circuit when there were more young people, so he said his goodbyes to the priest and to his brothers in arms, and then slipped out the back door and into the parking lot.

It was warmer that Stephen expected outside. He started to undo the buttons on his collar, staring blankly at the asphalt in front of him. Suddenly, he felt the need to look up.

The boy in the blue suit was sitting on the hood of Stephen's truck. The boy was Jon.

"Goddamn it," Stephen grumbled, stopping a few feet away from him. Jon smiled.

"Rachel and her parents ran off on me while I was in the bathroom and I recognized your truck from Anderson's driveway last night," Jon explained. "You're either stuck with me, or I can go back inside and start calling her every five seconds until she makes them come back and pick me up."

They stared each other down. It was apparently the one thing they did well together.

Stephen sighed. "Look, there are a lot of things I don't really get about life right now. My friends don't know anything and my family will never know anything. I mean, I haven't even talked to myself about a lot of what I may or may not feel." He took a breath. "I don't know what you want exactly, but I just need you to know that I may or may not have it, because I don't even know what I want exactly."

Stephen folded his hands behind his back. Jon nodded.

"I don't want anything, really, except to help you out, and maybe be your friend." Jon seemed to shrink when he said that. His lips tightened into a line as he looked up at Stephen. "And I mean that. Things are weird for me, too, you know..."

Stephen took a breath and finally remembered how to move. He walked woodenly to the driver's side of his truck, unlocking the doors before turning his head toward Jon. "You want some breakfast or something?"

Jon nodded and jumped to his feet, jogging over and hopping into the passenger seat before Stephen could even get his door open. "I'll even buy."

"We'll figure it out when we get there," Stephen answered as he slid into the truck. "Okay?"

"Okay."


End file.
